Occam's Razor
by anglaland
Summary: Occam's Razor: the principle that the simplest solution tends to be the correct one —or— America thinks England's Christmas decorations are haunted. USUK, established relationship.


England was _humming_ , leaving America to sit at the table alone, surreptitiously trying to memorize every detail of the scene. Despite England's unfailing tendency to be as prickly and long-suffering in all other months, Christmas softened him in a way that America found entirely too endearing.

December had begun a little over a week ago, Michael Bublé crackling over store speakers and bits of tinsel hanging off street lamps. America had visited early, hoping to catch England (and his fond smiles at choirs of children) before the rest of his brothers and former colonies trickled through for Christmas. He had hoped for some quiet relaxation with his lover (and not so quiet sex), but his arrival had sent England, who had apparently lost track of the date, into a panic. Instead, he was dragged to England's manor in Surrey, where the two of them had spent the last three days airing out corpse-like rooms and chasing out spiders ("and ghosts," England had viciously teased, while America pretended he wasn't terrified at all). And now, England was hanging up Christmas lights on December 11th. Eleventh!

America sipped his coffee a little too intensely, wondering if it was worth interrupting England's rendition of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ to complain about hanging up decorations so late. His thoughts were cut short, as England straightened up from the corner of the room with a self satisfied "Right, then. Doesn't look too bad at all."

He walked back to America, sliding into the chair next to him sloppily, shoulders knocking into each others'. "What do you think?"

"You're not going to turn them on?" America asked, looking at the hollow lights.

England stilled for a second, before returning to his task of closing up the box of decorations. "No," he said a little too casually. His eyes flicked towards America's, assessing him.

"Trying to save on the electricity bill?" America joked, while holding his gaze.

"Something like that," England replied.

"It's December 11th," America said, aghast. "Who cares about the bill? It's almost Christmas!"

England raised his eyebrows. " _Some_ of us mind their spending," he teased.

America scoffed. "I watched you drop two thousand dollars on alcohol just the other week. You're as bad as I am! So what's really the reason? Scared to get shocked? And I thought you told me that British plugs were the pinnacle of engineering."

"They _are_ ," England insisted. "And why does it matter? I'll turn them on later. Christmas is in a fortnight, there's no rush."

"Yeah, but it's the Christmas spirit _now_." America stood up. "I'll turn them on."

"No!" England snapped, too quickly. His eyebrows knitted together in frustration at the outburst, and America pivoted to fix him with his own incredulous look. "No," he repeated himself, slower, "Can't you just leave it?"

America's jaw clenched, and he couldn't help the disappointment and annoyance that welled up within him. They were partners, and yet England still kept his secrets closer.

("I'm not used to...sharing," England had murmured into America's ear once, as the latter had laid across England's chest. His lips had quirked against America's ear, before continuing. "In all senses of the word. I know it irks you. I just need some time.")

America didn't push the subject, and the two of them moved on. For now.

* * *

In the dead of the night, America woke up with the all-consuming urge to drink all of the Great Lakes in one go.

Toppling out of bed (and being careful not to roll over England's sprawling limbs in the process), he hobbled down rickety old wooden steps, willfully blind to the jagged shadows moonlight splashed across the wall. The tap water he drank wasn't really cold enough, but it would have to do.

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, staring at the dark Christmas lights strewn about the living room. After a few moments, he pushed himself off with a grumble, walking towards the decorations. _It's_ _Christmas_ , he thought to himself with some indignation. _The lights can't_ not _be on._

He was in the middle of tracing his hands through the strangle of lights when a bright flash of light popped in the corner of his eye. America whipped towards the source, almost tripping over England's ornate floor rug in the process. The dark living room stared back at him, accusingly normal. He straightened up slowly, giving one last glance around before tracing his hands against the string lights again.

Not ten seconds later, two clear, bright twinkles of light sparked in the corners of his visual fields.

This time, America did jump, falling backwards with a loud, "Okay, what the fuck?" Was he going blind? He couldn't have hallucinated the flashes twice...could he have? Slowly backing towards the kitchen, America slid into a breakfast stool, accusingly staring down the living room. Fine, then. Two could play at this game.

He woke up to England shaking him awake, concern written across the other man's face. "Why are you sleeping _here_?"

America thought back to last night, and imagined England's reaction when he said a trick of the light spooked him enough to fall asleep in the kitchen. No wonder England never told him anything.

"I got thirsty," he said instead.

* * *

Two days had passed, and the incident had left his mind, although England's strange possessiveness over the Christmas lights had not. He had turned them on yesterday, before flipping them off barely an hour later. "We're going to bed, no need to leave them on," he had said. America's response was cut short by England's languid, but firm kiss against his mouth. "Come upstairs," England had whispered, and who was America to deny that?

The next morning, America beat England down to the kitchen to cook breakfast, and more importantly, prevent England from setting the centuries old manor on fire (again). Sunlight peeked through the curtains, and America opened them wider to bathe the house in yellow light. Stepping into the kitchen, he turned left to reach the uppermost cabinet when he caught sight of those damnable decorations.

The Christmas lights, brightly lit, twinkled defiantly at him.

America looked at the living room for a long second. The lights stayed on. He rubbed his eyes, counted to ten, and sent off a quick prayer to God for good measure before opening his eyes again. The lights were still on.

 _Maybe England got up and turned them on,_ America thought to himself. The more he thought about it, the more likely the scenario seemed. England had the weirdest sense of humor at times, and probably thought it would be a funny prank to play on America. Well, ha ha ha.

(He thought about how England's lips would quirk into that half smirk, half gleeful purse of the lips when he told him that the lights were on. England hadn't been hiding anything at all, had he? America couldn't stop the stupid smile that crossed his own face.)

He drizzled pancake mix into a perfect circle on his pan, and closed the cabinet. Halfway to turning back to his pan, America's subconscious screamed at him, and his eyes snapped back to the living room.

The lights were off.

"Oh my fucking god," America wheezed, and scrambled back up the stairs.

England was still dead on the bed when America burst into the room. He jumped into the bed, screeching, "England! Babe, wake up!"

England's eyes snapped open, spine cracking straight as he jumped. "America?" he gasped, mind racing to wake up.

"England, you've got to come down right now," America said, dragging the other man out of bed. England protested, futilely attempting to pull his limbs out of America's death grip. America barely noticed his resistance, shoving him down the stairs first. "Look!" he yelled, arm gesturing out into a dramatic sweep.

England looked at his kitchen and lounge. "It's...certainly my kitchen and lounge," he said hesitantly.

America rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean that," he complained. He stepped out in front of England, turning the face the lights. "I meant—"

His words choked off halfway. _I'm going insane,_ America thought, looking at the clearly shut off lights.

"Yes?" England prompted, at America's silence.

America gaped silently for a second before his brain restarted. "I–" He couldn't say it. "I made you pancakes," he finished lamely.

The look England was giving him was tinged so heavily with disbelief and resignation that America would laugh if he wasn't half convinced his brain was deteriorating. "For pancakes," England replied, voice deadly calm. America plastered his trademark grin on his face and went to wrap his arms around England.

"Yep," he said, and then smelled the charcoal. He reached over to flip his perfectly circular pancake, revealing ash. "Just how you like them."

England's mouth worked wordlessly. America made his strategic exit before England's brain caught up and murdered him.

* * *

In the afternoon, when England had jumped back to London to finish up some last minute business, America took the time to think about the haunted house he was living in.

It was one thing for him to hallucinate the same thing twice. It was entirely too coincidental that all his hallucinations were centered around the christmas lights England was behaving so weirdly about.

Would England deliberately haunt his own house to spook America? He couldn't tell. Maybe once, before they had gotten together, he might have, but England had become more considerate (if such a word could ever be applied to England) after they started sleeping together. But then again, one never knew with England.

Frustrated, America grabbed his coat and left the house, dialing his brother's number on his phone. Canada had always been more attuned to England's thoughts and idiosyncrasies, a partnership that had always itched at America, who had never really managed to kill the childishness possessiveness he had with England. He swallowed down his pride (and the international call fees), and waited for Canada to pick up.

"Hello?" came the groggy, sleep laden voice. Belatedly, America realized that it was early morning across the Atlantic (a mistake England never made with him).

"Hey bro," America said casually. "How's it going?"

A long groan answered him on the other end of the line, followed by questionable thunks as Canada worked his way out of bed. "Was going great before you woke me up at 5 am," Canada muttered. "What's up? Aren't you at England's?"

"Yeah, about that…" America paused, trying to come up with a healthy, mentally adjusted way to ask his question. "Listen, there's some weird things that have been happening."

"Please don't tell me that England's house is haunted," Canada sighed.

"No, listen—" America gripped his phone tighter, as if England's secret service would come busting out to apprehend him.

"America," Canada said, exasperated. "We've been through this. Several times, actually—"

"This time it's real, bro!" America insisted.

"That's what you said the _last_ ten times," Canada pointed out. "Just because the stairs are creaking or you forgot to close a window doesn't mean that supernatural forces are after you."

In Canada's defense, maybe America had been a little trigger happy in the past. But this time, there had been _two_ questionable incidences—not to mention England's own peculiar behavior. America explained as much to Canada, recounting the whole story.

"America…" Canada trailed off. "Why don't you just mention it to England?"

America exhaled deeply. "I tried, remember? He didn't give me an answer."

Canada is quiet for a few seconds, before speaking up again. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. The lights are probably sentimental or something—you know he doesn't like talking about that sort of stuff."

"But what about the flashing?" America persisted. "I know I didn't imagine that." He cut off Canada hastily, continuing, "And it's not like the time I thought a sheet over a coat rack was a ghost. I know what I saw."

"It could have been a trick of the light," Canada said. "Maybe a car passed by at night. Or the sun shined on it in the morning. I think you should let this go. Just enjoy your time with England."

America thought back to his memories. Canada could be right. "Yeah," he said half-heartedly. Canada began to say something else, but America suddenly wasn't in the mood to talk anymore. "I'll talk to you later. Thanks. See you in a week."

He hung up, staring at the home screen on his phone for a minute, before shaking it off. Canada was likely right...and he should be enjoying his time with England. Wrapping his coat tighter around himself, he turned around to start walking back.

* * *

On December 18th, America's advent calendar presented him with salted caramel chocolate, which was indicative of how the week had gone. On the outside, America was perfectly sweet to England, the perfect attentive and caring boyfriend. He followed England sweets shopping with minimal complaints. The extravagant alcohol purchases ("for my brothers," as England has said) didn't even raise an eyebrow from him. And he certainly didn't mention the continuous peculiar occurrences with England's lights (including an incidence where America had stared directly at one star, watching it blink in and out of existence as if lived in the night sky).

To England's benefit, he _had_ asked after America, likely suspicious at the lack of characteristic teasing between them. But America had waved him off, and England had left it at that ( _and maybe England was glad he was finally acting 'mature' for once_ , America thought darkly).

Like most things, it wasn't meant to last.

America had been sitting on one of England's couches, one foot hanging off decadently, half-heartedly paying attention to the news on the television and full-heartedly ignoring the three lights that were flashing above him, when England suddenly appeared in the living room.

"Enjoying yourse–" England had begun to say, before his eyes snapped to the lights above America. The lights, to their benefit, had immediately stopped their mocking twinkling, but judging by the color drain on England's face, it wasn't fast enough.

"Have you–" England seemed to choke on his words.

"Yup," America tiredly said to the unspoken question.

"You can see that?" England said, with some hysteria.

"Have been seeing that," America corrected. "What're you thinking for dinner?"

England sank into the cushion next to America. "America," he started, making an aborted attempt to reach over and lay his hand upon America's. Stopping halfway, he looked towards the lights, face unreadable. "Why didn't you tell me?"

America sighed, and reached over to the remote to turn the T.V. off. "Because you didn't want me asking," he reminded England. "You asked me to leave it. I did. And it's probably just a trick of the light, or something, yeah?"

Guilt crossed England's face. "I didn't know–" He cut himself off.

"It doesn't matter," America said tonelessly. "Really. I don't know what's up with them, but I'm not going to push you." He stood up off the couch, hand extended towards England. "Let's just get some dinner."

Staring up at America, England seemed to come to some internal decision, lost guilt in his eyes giving way to resolution. He grasped America's hand and pulled him down, so that they were sitting knees locked next to each other. "I...I know I haven't been entirely truthful," England said, and then looked away, unable to look America in the eye. "I didn't think you would see it."

"Well," said America. "I did."

"I know," England said quickly. "I should have told you. I just...well, it doesn't matter now, I suppose."

England fell silent, but America didn't say anything. To be honest, he had no idea what England was going to say next. Finally, after another internal struggle, England took a deep breath, before forcing himself to look America in the eye. "The lights are...sentimental," he said slowly.

America made an internal note never to tell Canada he was right.

"I've had them for a while," he continued. "And usually I'd have them put up and ready before everyone came over...before you came over." He smiled wryly. "Didn't remember to do that this year."

America couldn't really see what that had to do with anything, but he nodded in encouragement. England stared at him with an indescribable look on his face for a few moments, before glancing at the lights, and then back at America.

"My faeries like to play with them before Christmas," said England suddenly.

Of anything England could have said, this ranked last in what America would have guessed. "Your _faeries_?" America repeated, gaping at him. Too late, he realized that he needed to reign in his facial expression, England's face closing off at record speed. "I mean, yeah, of course. Go on?"

England's mouth twisted, cheekbones hallowing in. "I know you don't believe in them. It sounds silly, and childish, but it's the truth."

Several things clicked in America's mind at once. The careful precautions. The incidences too unlikely to be explained by tricks of the light. Why England didn't think he would see them … and why he never told him.

Despite America's very real terror at the supernatural elements of ghosts and zombies and aliens, he had always dismissed England's tamer magical elements. He couldn't see them, and they weren't going to kill him in his sleep like any of _his_ eldritch horrors, so he never really cared.

Except now he could see them, and now he cared.

England was still talking, and America wretched his focus back to the present. "I don't know why you could see them—or half see them, in any case. But they're the lights you saw—have been seeing."

There's a long, quiet moment between them.

"I believe you," America said, and the words are hard to say. "I didn't think I'd ever see them, and…" The next part is especially difficult to say. "I understand why you didn't tell me. I was so wrapped up in acting _mature_ for you...and I didn't even try where mattered most."

England looked at him with wide eyes, before turning away. "I should have told you anyway. If we're...in a relationship, I should have done better."

The entire situation is almost too serious for America, who could rival England in a loathing to talk about his real feelings. "I think this is the part where I say, 'no, I should have done better'!"

England doesn't crack a smile, glancing at him with the same stricken look in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, disarming America in two simple words.

America can count on two hands the amount of times he's seen England apologize to anyone. This is about more than christmas lights haunted by faeries.

"Hey," he said gently. He reaches out to hold England, wrapping the other man in between his arms. "I meant it. We both made mistakes. We're old—well, you're old, I'm in my prime—" England reached up to playfully tug at America's ear, and America hid a smile in the others' hair.

"We'll probably keep making mistakes. But we can...get better too. So. I'm sorry too."

England opened his mouth (likely to tease America for his own rare apology) but seemingly thought better of it, closing his mouth and instead humming yes in response.

They sit like this for a while, wrapped up in each other.

"So your faeries...they're not going to kill me in my sleep or anything, are they?"

England swatted America over the head. "They're mischievous, not murderous!"

"I was just making sure!" America mock groaned.

"...well, most of them aren't murderous, at least."

America stiffened in alarm. "Wait, what is that supposed to mean—"

England laughed, leaning up to press a kiss against America's mouth. "Don't worry love, I'll keep you safe from the _big, bad faeries_." And laughed again as America added a new supernatural fear to the list.

They'd be all right.

* * *

 _omake_

"Ah, young love," Bluebell sighed, small hand placed over her heart. Besides her, Robin Goodfellow had his hands cupped around his face, peering through the window at them.

"I daresay our Queen will be pleased," he said. "Hopefully enough that she'll forget we interfered with those of no sight. She does dote on England."

"Yes, well, you can put your head on the line for that, not mine," said Bluebell. "But I'll admit, we make a good team, you and I." Inside, the two figures made their way upstairs, and the faeries took their leave as well.

* * *

Notes:

\+ Written for aph-fanficchallenges on Tumblr, for their Christmas advent calendar. I was Day 11, 'Christmas Lights' as the prompt.

\+ In England, Christmas lights are also called fairy lights.


End file.
